


Take It In, Stay With It

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [31]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Paddling, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5349518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hadn’t told him not to speak but it’s nice, sometimes, to just shut the hell up. Dom!Clara/Sub!Twelve</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take It In, Stay With It

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested: sub 12, spanking

It’s not that he wants to be punished, although that’s part of it. It’s not about pain, even if he does enjoy the pain, the sting, the lingering soreness afterwards. Something to do with vulnerability, he thinks. Being pushed to his breaking point, and then past it. All his carefully-constructed walls crumbling, with the one person he trusts to take care of whatever is revealed.

And Clara likes it, so that’s another plus.

She’s got him bent over his workbench, arms above his head, trousers around his ankles. His body meticulously arranged to her liking. He can hear her, not see her; can feel her behind him, the small bright tangle of her presence. She moves so slow, why does she always move so slow? But he can be patient, for her. He will.

He waits, he waits, shivering in the cool air. Long enough that when her touch does come it’s a shock, although he knows not to move, not to jump. Her fingernails scratching lightly down his back, beneath his shirt; soft palms cupping his arsecheeks. Her thumb stroking over his tailbone, and lower, and he tenses, wills himself not to press back against her. This isn’t that, not tonight.

She hadn’t told him not to speak but it’s nice, sometimes, to just shut the hell up. Can’t help the noise he makes when she pulls away, though. It’s something to do with need, maybe. Needing one simple thing, packing up all the other things and thoughts and errant mental processes, and filling the space up with this. With her.

“One,” she says, and hits him. More of a tap, really, but his cock still twitches in response. He’s halfway through figuring out the molecular makeup and temporal/spatial provenance of the leather before he catches himself, drags himself back. It’s a paddle, that’s all he needs to know.

A pause. Funny how long it can be between seconds, even when he’s here, not hiding from time inside his head. He breathes. In, and out, and in, and -

“Two.” Harder, now. And he’s harder now as well, cock stiffening against the smooth wood. It’s the wrong sort of friction but that doesn’t matter, that isn’t what this is about, not tonight. “Three.”

The counting is for her. She likes keeping track. He likes losing track, where the meaning of the words goes away and it’s just her voice. Just the shake in her voice - _four_ \- and the hitch in her breath. And the smell of her arousal; does she know how obvious she is? Not half as obvious as he is, to be fair, and it’s nice to be obvious sometimes, without pretense or shame or -

“Five,” and she catches him, drags him back. Some muscle behind the swing now, an audible crack as the paddle snaps against his skin. He rocks forward, hands clenching the edge of the workbench.

And he loses track. The universe doesn’t matter, the future doesn’t matter, nothing matters but this. They could be the only two people left alive, this could be the only stretch of time, looping and repeating and mounting, each hit better and worse and more of everything, and smaller than anything. Itself, themselves. What else could there possibly be.

She stops, at some point. She decides when he’s done, she always does. She probably knows better than him how much he can take. He’s never been the best judge. He’s still trembling but relaxing, collapsing in on himself, not flinching as she gingerly applies whatever ointment it is she’s chosen tonight to the damage that she’s done. Something vaguely floral, a little tingly. He does his best not to fidget.

There’s a moment, there’s always a moment, where he has to turn and face her. Where she guides him up, her hands on his shoulders, and shuffles him around. And he’s always just a little bit afraid of what her eyes will hold when they meet his, how she’ll look at him. What it is that she’ll see. What creature she’s unearthed from the rubble.

And there’s a moment where she smiles, and kisses him, hands tangling in his hair. Reassuring and kind and just a little bit demanding. Maybe that’s what this is about, being hers, being pulled apart and exposed for whatever he is, and still being accepted.

That’s - more than nice, being accepted. More than accepted, being wanted. Loved, even. Not that that’s a word either of them know how to use, or want to confront head-on, but he knows enough by now to just accept that it exists.

“Only you could get maudlin about my perversions,” she says as she tidies up. “Don’t tell me you’re not all mentally florid right now, I know that look.”

“Mmm. You do, don’t you.” He carefully pulls his trousers up, wincing a little. Not entirely sure of what to do with his erection, aware he looks patently ridiculous, not particularly minding.

She gives him a once-over, eyebrow raised. “Let me know when you’ve recuperated. I’ve got some…things, I want you to tend to.”

“The lightbulb in Corridor Five gone out again?”

“Yes, that’s it exactly. I want you to change a lightbulb. Good job.” She pats him fondly on the chest. “Idiot.”

“ _Your_ idiot, though.”

“My idiot,” she confirms. “But still an idiot.”


End file.
